


Demons

by lifeaftermeteor



Series: Life After Meteor [9]
Category: Gundam Wing
Genre: BROTPs abound, Gen, Post-Canon, Post-Endless Waltz, Post-Series, Preventers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-27
Updated: 2016-03-27
Packaged: 2018-05-29 07:31:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 9,802
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6364948
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lifeaftermeteor/pseuds/lifeaftermeteor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The L2 case has absorbed Duo, forcing him to face his demons and seek closure for anger and grief held onto for too long.  Meanwhile, Trowa and Quatre adjust to the single life, Relena convinces her boss to let her take off the training wheels, and Heero and Wufei try to keep tabs on their friends.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is part 9 of the [Life After Meteor](http://archiveofourown.org/series/391015) series, which trails the Gundam Pilots (and others) through the years post-war. Welcome comments/feedback.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning on this chapter: mention of child death and human trafficking. Skip if desired - you should be safe after this.

**L2-V08744  
202 February 2**

They had gotten an anonymous tip – they were always anonymous nowadays – that there was something of interest in the E-Wing cargo decks that they should check out, and quickly. Dispatch had admitted that they’d been half-tempted to advise they disregard the tip…but something in Duo’s gut had told him that this one was different.

Liam Campbell, the Branch Chief, apparently felt the same because the hours between “ridiculously late” and “obscenely early” found the team sweeping the cargo decks one by one, infrared sensors swinging across stacks of shipping crates. The team had fanned out to cover more ground, and Duo had been grateful for the reinforcements they’d been able to syphon off of the other colonial Preventers branch offices. 

The last year had been exhausting, loaded down heavy with legal loopholes, missing witnesses, and gunfights of the like Duo hadn’t seen in years. But all of it – _all of it_ – was approaching singularity. They were close to a breakthrough: he could feel it in his skin. 

“Sir,” one of the younger agents called as he jogged toward Campbell and Duo. Drawing to a halt, he gasped, “Sir, you’re going to want to come take a look at this. You’re not going to believe it.” Taking a few steps backward in the direction from which he had just come, he motioned the two of them to follow. The team chief spared a glance at Duo, who shrugged, before the two of them fell in beyond the agent. 

The young man led them to one of the cargo containers which a small crowd of Preventer agents had just pried open and were currently staring into as if it would swallow them whole. Duo wondered for a moment what kind of weaponry could possibly shell-shock a team of seasoned Preventer agents when he rounded the corner and looked in for himself. 

Huddled in the back of the container were nearly two dozen children. 

Blinking up wild-eyed at the agents on the other end, they clustered behind three larger – presumably older – kids, two boys and a girl, who had their arms stretched out to protect the smaller ones. Their small faces were smeared with grime, their clothes were several sizes too large and worn thin, their shoes had holes. They glared into the lights, suspicious, frightened, and hopelessly trapped. 

Off to his right, Duo registered the Preventers team discussing what to do with them all, and how to get them out – one of the men had apparently suffered a nasty bite when they had tried initially to pull the kids out. 

“Oye,” Duo called to the huddled mass of small bodies at the other end of the container. “Quien da bigman aquí?” [1]

As he expected the kids watched him in startled, confused silence for a moment. A few shared furtive glances between them, but then the older boy to the right, dressed in a red t-shirt and torn denim, raised a small hand and called back, “Aquí.” 

Duo took a few steps forward and crouched down before him. He tapped his forehead with two of his fingers and then touched the ground before looking up, a sign of respect which was clearly appreciated based on how the kid’s chest puffed up as he broke away from the rest of the group. “Nem bi que?” Duo asked. 

“Aflojar. Iu e?” 

Duo smiled. With a name like ‘loosen,’ he could guess what the kid was doing before getting caged up with the rest of his crew. “Nem bi Dúo e. Kam wid gut man,” he told the boy, jabbing a thumb over his shoulder at the Preventers who hovered behind him, apparently uncertain on how to proceed. “Kan trus dem olgeta, orait?” 

Aflojar’s eyes flicked from Duo’s face to the collection of men behind him. There was great suspicion there. “Polisman?” 

Duo shook his head. “Stopiman,” he corrected and saw the briefest flicker of relief in those blue eyes before the kid could suppress it. _Never trust the grown-ups._ But apparently Preventers were more trustworthy than most, which was a good sign. “Dem wan helpim iu ol. Dis ples nogut, seh go wid dem olgeta, orait?” 

The boy considered the proposal for a moment, clearly weighing the benefits of leaving with the assembled agents against the questionable safety of the crate they’d been trapped in for God knew how long…and then nodded. Duo offered him a relieved smile and stood – the boy kept his eyes locked on his, even as he towered above him – and took two steps backward before turning and closing the distance between himself and Campbell’s team. 

In a soft voice, Duo informed them, “The boy in red is their leader – or at least one of them, I think there’s two groups here who got slammed together and he just spoke up first, which makes him the de facto leader for the time being. 

“Anyway,” he continued, “the boy in red – name’s Aflojar. You’re not gonna get anything done without his say-so.” He caught a couple of the men glance over his shoulder and told them, “He’s probably talking to the rest of the kids, letting them know who we are and what we’re doing.” 

“And what did you tell them we’re doing?” Campbell asked. 

“Getting them out of this crate, for starters. Take them to the cribs at the branch. I know there’s not enough beds, but they won’t use them anyway. But then we’ll need to move them somewhere else – it’s not safe to stay on the streets anymore. Not for them.” 

Just then, the radios at their hips came to life with a crackling of static. “Gunfire!” the agent on the other end hailed. “Gunfire in Deck 7!” 

“Right – Duo, Baruti, Samson, with me,” Campbell ordered, pulling his gun from his holster. “The rest of you, get these kids back to HQ and call ahead to get a second sweep out here. Let’s move.” 

Their boots pounding the metal flooring, they ran several decks over at the call for reinforcements, unholstering their weapons as they did so. But by the time they’d reached their colleagues, the fight was done. Slowing to a halt, panting, Duo watched as a pair of agents dragged off a man who struggled between them while a few others knelt over two fallen bodies. 

Something was wrong. 

It was the gray that gave it away. It was painted on the faces of the agents who turned away from the opening of another crate, so similar to the one they’d just come from. Crate 72. The numbers reflected back silver under the false light overhead as Duo approached. Someone grabbed his arm as he passed, but he shook the other agent loose and kept walking. He only stopped when he too stood at the entrance. 

There were seventeen of them. Duo’s stomach turned. 

“Three gunmen. Only one captured alive,” Campbell said as he came up beside him. “Their taking him back to the branch, but…we think they panicked. Knew we were coming and didn’t know what to do.” 

Seventeen. Crate 72. 

Duo swallowed down the bile that rose in his throat and strode defiantly forward into the darkness. He watched the floor, his black boots thumping against the metal between little sneakers and bare feet. He stopped then, surrounded by all of them. Little feet, little shoes, little lights snuffed out in the darkness of cargo crate number 72. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispered to the shadows, to the vacant eyes that stared back at him, accusing him, asking him why, _why_ he wasn’t fast enough. Again. “I’m so sorry…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [1] L2 pidgin is usually a bastard combination of the two most prominent languages on-island, sometimes with a third thrown in for flavor. As it happens, Duo’s home colony of L2-V08744 has an English-Spanish pidgin, but others sport alternative combos depending on the population – Spanish-Chinese is another popular one for the L2 cluster. The grammatical rules have never been written down, but generally speaking question and locator words (who, here, where, there, etc.) are in Spanish, as are personal names which are usually descriptors of what the person is or does in the day-to-day. Meanwhile, all other filler is in some semblance of English.


	2. Chapter 2

**L2 Branch Office  
L2-V08744  
202 February 2**

Back at headquarters, now only about an hour until the colony’s scheduled sunrise, the interrogation was going nowhere. That was plain to see. 

Duo ground his teeth on the other side of the one-way glass as he watched the towering South African Preventer tear into their suspect. The other man gave nothing away, barely dignifying the agent’s pressure with an answer, and didn’t bite once at the efforts to corner him using the evidence – both real and imagined – they held against him. “This isn’t going to work,” he said finally. 

“Clearly. What would you suggest?” Campbell asked him, sounding just as frustrated. “It’s not like we can torture the guy, Duo.” 

“No, of course not,” Duo acknowledged, ever-so-slightly disappointed at being denied the opportunity with this one. “In addition to being morally reprehensible and the basest form of questioning, it’s largely ineffective and tends to produce poor results. As if people don’t lie under duress.” He watched Baruti try another angle with their suspect through the glass, and knew it was dead in the water. His eyes narrowed. “It’s my turn now, I think.” 

There was a heavy pause as the man next to him considered the ramifications of letting his detailee into the room with their one lead, or so Duo assumed. And then he pounded twice on the glass. Baruti looked up and with one parting glance, heavy with disapproval, at their smirking suspect, exited the room. 

“What’s up?” the agent asked them after the door had closed. Duo kept his eyes trained on the man still inside as the two agents spoke over his head. 

“We’re not getting anywhere,” the team chief said. 

“Yeah, I know. You got a better idea?” 

“Duo wants to take a whack at him.” 

Again, the heavy pause. And then in his peripheral vision, Duo saw Baruti shrug. “Sure. Couldn’t hurt, I suppose.” 

“Thanks,” Duo told them both and slipped away, entering the room and closing the door before they could change their minds. As he strode forward, their suspect started to chuckle. 

“Whad, deh tired? Sendin’ the baby in?” 

Duo said not a word, but took a seat at the far end of the table, putting some distance between himself and their suspect. Then he rested his elbows on the table top and, lacing his fingers together, balanced his chin on the backs of his interwoven hands. 

And then he just…watched. 

It was a tactic he’d seen Heero use dozens of times during their time together in Geneva. Patience. Patience was always their undoing – if you waited long enough, fire and brimstone seeping from your pores, they would always talk because only truly dangerous men had the patience to wait.

The man fidgeted and spat, “Whad’re ya gun do, stare meh ta death?” 

And still Duo watched him. He stared into those eyes – those ‘L2 Blue’ eyes so much like his own – and wondered what could bring a man to this point. He searched the man’s face and tried to find some echo of decency, some shred of humanity. Unblinking, he searched. And as the minutes stretched on in silence, with occasional spattering of abuse from the man at the other end of the table, he found it. There, that spark of uncertainty. Not quite fear, not yet. But it would be. 

Oh yes. 

“My colleagues tell me your name’s ‘Correr,’” Duo finally said, his voice dark and steady. “I used to do a fair bit of running myself, Correr, but you’ve run out of road. So we’re gonna play a game. You’re gonna tell me what I need to know. Or you’re gonna die tonight.” 

The man scoffed at the threat and told him, “Preventers can’t touch meh ‘ere.” 

“No,” Duo acknowledged. “You’re absolutely right. Inside this room, inside this building. This is ESUN law. And all those Preventers agents out there can’t harm a hair on your head. But don’t think for a _moment_ that I’m one of them. Because I know and you know that outside these walls…out in the streets…or down in the cells…that’s L2, and it’s L2 law. 

“You’ve broken a cardinal rule, Correr,” he continued, “and you’re going to have to answer for that. All I have to do is take one finger – just one. One you don’t even really use. I’ll take one finger. And you won’t live to see tomorrow. You’ll die in those holding cells, Correr,” Duo assured him, with absolute certainty. “And there will be no trial, no investigation, no witnesses. They’ll find your blood congealing on the floor and in a room full of criminals, no one will know who did it. Because it won’t matter. Just one less sick fuck on the streets.” 

“Yehr lyin,’” the man snapped. But uncertainty had taken root and grown exponentially the longer Duo talked. It was clear that the man had come to the conclusion that he was dealing with an entirely different animal than he had originally believed, and with his hands cuffed to the table there was little he could do to defend himself. 

“I never lie,” Duo told him. Standing, he dragged his chair over to the door and wedged the back under the doorknob. Instantly, someone started pounding on the one-way glass while another struggled to open the door from the other side. _Too late, gents,_ Duo mused. He spared one dark look on the glass before turning back to their suspect. 

The man watched him with confusion and mounting trepidation; but it was not until Duo released the spring-loaded blade attached to his wrist that the man finally seemed to understand. As he cursed, fear rolled off of him in waves as he struggled against the cuffs that held his hands to the table. 

“Who do you work for, what are their names, and where are they?” he asked, his voice amicable even has he tapped the tip of the blade into the far side of the table. 

“Ya gotta be kiddin’ meh—” 

Duo took a large step forward and repeated the action, the ringing of metal-on-metal bouncing about the room. “Who do you work for? What are their names? Where are they?” 

“I dunno, man. I dunno! Jesus Christ—”

And so Duo stepped forward again, struck the table again, asked again. 

“Ya gotta believe meh—” 

As Duo drew up beside him, the agents outside began to try to force the door open with ever-growing fervor. He ignored them, instead uncurling Correr’s right fist and stretching the man’s pinky finger straight across the table. He rested the blade against its knuckle, and asked again. 

Correr didn’t hear him. “But I hurt n’body!” 

“Nah, you just _murdered_ seventeen of them while they were trapped in that crate. Think the masses’ll believe that you never _hurt_ them too?” Duo snapped, his eyes boring holes into the other man’s. “You’ll be the one missing the finger.” 

“Pleez – yeh can’t—” 

“Who do you work for? What are their names? Where are they?” Duo repeated, pressing the blade into the flesh of the man’s pinky. Somewhere behind him, he registered something or somebody slamming into the door with mounting force. Too bad the organization had seen fit to install reinforced doors within Preventer branch offices, he reflected. 

And finally, Correr shouted, tears streaming down his face, “Ozols! It’s Ozols! His crew been dealin’ this shit since ‘95!” 

At the mention of the mob boss, the struggling with the door behind him stopped. If Ozols was behind the trafficking ring, this operation just grew even larger than they’d thought. “Who’s your handler?” 

“Guy nem’d Nabiyev. He meets meh for deh drop at E-Wing.” 

Duo gritted his teeth. “Ozols may be at the head of the ring, but you my friend are dealing in lives. What’s he need the kids for?” 

“I dunno, I dunno,” the man wept, keeping his eyes locked on the blade that sat against his skin. “I just get ‘em. I just deliver the goods.” 

“Those ‘goods’ are children. Little kids you stole of the street. Little kids you _kidnapped_ and _murdered_ tonight…” Duo pressed the blade a little harder into the man’s flesh, blood welling against the metal. 

“I swear! I juh di’nt know whad ta do! Deh dun wan’ ‘em hurt. Worthless if deh hurt.” 

“And what happens to them after you hand them over?” 

“I dunno! I rehlly dunno. Pleez, pleez…” 

Duo stared for a long moment into those terrified blue eyes and saw the truth. Correr knew nothing more than what he’d already given them. But at least it was a start. He released the man – who sobbed with relief – and rolled up his sleeve to sheath his blade against his forearm once more as he crossed the room to the door, removed the chair, and stepped out. 

Baruti dodged around him to collect their suspect and escort him to processing. Campbell waited until the other agent and their suspect were well out of earshot before he launched into Duo while the other man rolled his sleeve back down and turned to walk out of the narrow hallway. “The fuck was that, _agent?”_

“You have your name and more information than when we started. Go do your homework,” Duo told him, unremorseful. 

“I thought you said that torture doesn’t work. That it was ‘reprehensible.’” 

“That wasn’t torture.” 

“Then what the fuck do you call that?” Campbell all but shouted, throwing his arm out back toward the now empty interrogation room. 

“That,” Duo said as he rounded on the other man, “would have been an execution.” 

“And what was all that about lying under duress?” 

“Most people can manage to keep their lips sealed when you hit them a few times. It’s when you threaten them with death that the cowards start talking.” 

A dawning recognition crossed the Preventer’s face. “You really were going to cut off his finger.” 

“Yes.” 

“And that would have led to his death in the holding cells.” 

“Yes.” 

“You’re certain?” 

“Positive.” 

They watched each other for a long moment. Duo stared up at the blond, daring him to challenge him further. But then something flickered in Campbell’s eyes. Duo was startled to find it was curiosity, and so – taking a deep breath – he explained, “The street uses signals to advertise who’s a traitor, a liar, a snitch, a rapist through the fingers someone has – or doesn’t have, as the case may be.”

“I knew that much,” the team chief answered, but then raised his right hand and wiggled his pinky. “But I don’t know what this one is.”

Duo opened the door which led back into the well-lit, organized chaos of the main branch offices, but paused to say, “Pedophile,” as he stepped across the threshold.


	3. Chapter 3

**L2-V08744  
202 February 28**

By the time Campbell had called together the colony’s religious leadership, the news of recent developments in the case had already reached them. And with their shared grief, they opened their doors.

The support came just in time, as it happened. Duo suspected Aflojar was behind it – he hadn’t gotten a chance to ask the kid whether he had runners in his group. Regardless of how it happened, news had hit the streets of what had happened in the E-Wing cargo decks and the branch office had found itself inundated with pint-sized squatters who were all in desperate need of shelter, food, and a bath in equal parts. 

They therefore piled crews of kids in nondescript, easily forgettable trucks and delivered them safely – or so they hoped – into the hands of God or Allah or Elohim or Krishna or Bob or What-Have-You. 

The most antsy of the crews, Duo himself accompanied to their respective drops. And as he watched them go into those Houses of the Divine, he remembered how it felt. How strange, how alien. How he felt like the purest of trespassers, walking through those large double doors into another world of kindness and peace…More than once, Duo had had to shake his head to forcibly dispel the memories and bite his tongue in order to refocus his thoughts on the mission at hand: save the kids, protect the kids. 

It was not until a drop at St. Agnes Abbey that something jostled him from this singular focus. At the time, he was helping a group of nuns shepherd the kids quickly from the vehicle into the sanctuary – each and every one of them wide-eyed and slack-jawed by the height of the vaulted ceiling alone – when a pair of cat-like footsteps approached him from behind. 

“Maxwell’s Little Demon.” 

Duo froze. The words – spoken with astonishment and certainty in equal measure – drifted through the air around him like ashes and brought back memories of fist fights and scuffed knees, a woman’s soothing embrace and a stained glass window. Turning, he found a sour-faced Abbess standing before him, her aging features twisted in shock. 

When she got a good look at him, the disbelief dissolved into what he could only describe as pained relief. “It is you,” she whispered. “You’re alive.” 

The young nun beside Duo had clearly fully embraced her confusion, her eyes darting back and forth between them. He meanwhile struggled for words, a name. The Abbess chose that moment to step toward him and Duo felt old instincts flare – _Fight or flight, boy?_ – but found his boots bolted to the floor. 

With a shaking hand, the older woman reached out and touched his face. Her eyes softened and her voice shuddered as she murmured, “Bless you, Child. Bless you.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Cirque Ste-Croix, Staff Trailers  
St. Petersburg, Russia  
202 April 22**

It had been six months and 28 days since Trowa had returned from Iran, silent and morose, to their little band of performers and miscreants. 

His return to the troupe last October had been sudden and unannounced, but when she pressed him for details for why he was back so soon, he outright refused to discuss it. The vehemence with which he resisted her prodding had caught her off-guard. Trowa was not the exceptionally talkative sort, truth be told, but she had grown accustomed to him confiding in her. His lashing out at her efforts to be helpful had stung more than she cared to let on. 

She knew in her gut that it had something to do with _him._ Mr. Quatre Winner. The boy who’d run off with Trowa’s heart – and a fair amount of his self-preservation, too – years ago while they were still little more than children. The man who had taken that gift and trust and crushed it underfoot. 

Or so she could reasonably assume seeing as Trowa would neither confirm nor deny the matter. But she’d seen enough of the tumult from the sidelines over the last few years and knew that something was different. The balance had shifted and, she feared, not for the better. 

So she waited and watched as Trowa slid deeper into himself, roused from his melancholy only when in the center ring. He was happy there, she knew, making children laugh and crowds gasp. But the moment he was again behind the curtain, the apathy returned and Cathy found herself shivering at the memory of a gloomy boy she once knew. 

This evening found her marching across the circus’ grounds, a pot of beef stew deftly balanced between her long-fingered hands. She had to set it down only for a moment to reach out and knock at the door of Trowa’s trailer before lifting the pot back into the air. 

“Cathy,” he said as he opened his trailer door, apparently startled to find her standing on his stoop. His eyes were red. 

“I brought dinner,” she said cheerfully enough, hefting the soup pot a bit above her chest almost as a peace offering. 

His face shifted into that well-practiced and abhorrent mask of calm. “I’m not hungry,” he told her simply, sounding almost too tired to be defiant. 

“Nonsense,” Cathy countered and marched up the steps and into his trailer. As she brushed passed him, she heard him sigh in defeat, apparently swallowing back whatever additional protest had been brewing. Setting the pot on the small counter in his kitchenette, she rummaged through the cabinets and drawers for bowls and silverware, always watching him from the corner of her eye. 

Trowa hovered until she laid out place settings for the two of them and sat down, him joining her once she was settled. As she started to eat, he took up the spoon but only stirred the contents of the bowl in front of him. “Go on,” he urged, not meeting her eyes. “Ask.” 

It was all the prompting Cathy needed. “What’s going on?” 

“Nothing.” 

“Trowa—” 

“Nothing is going on, Cathy. Not anymore. I… I walked out.” The words seemed painful. Quieter he added, “I left him there.” 

Cathy bit back the ‘Good riddance,’ that had almost slipped between her lips. One look at his face was enough to tell her that such a response would be poorly received. Instead, doing her best to sound disappointed, she said, “Then it’s over. There’s no other direction to go than forward.” 

Trowa saw straight through her, however, and leveled a cold glare at her from across the table. “Don’t act like you’re not happy about it. You never liked him. Ever. Though what he ever did to offend you, I don’t know.” 

She winced at the reprimanded. Truth be told, the Winner Heir had never sought to be _intentionally_ cruel, as far as she was aware. He just…seemed to forget the collateral damage at times. It aggravated her to no end. 

Before she could respond, Trowa stood suddenly from the table and stalked to counter, withdrawing a clear bottle – vodka, she assumed – and a shot glass. He quickly poured and downed the contents. Twice. He then leaned heavily on the countertop, his fingertips white under the pressure. 

As the silence stretched on between them, she watched the tremors begin. First at his hands but quickly traversing up his arms and into his shoulders. And then he spoke. “What am I doing Cathy?” the whispered question came, his voice raw. “I love him. Still. But I can’t go back – my heart hurts too much.”

Pressing her lips into a thin line, Cathy stood and walked around the table to his side. Hesitant, she reached out and touched his arm. Her heart broke as he flinched…but when he didn’t pull away, she embraced him fully, her other hand finding a hold on his bicep while her cheek rested against his shoulder blade. “I’m sorry Trowa,” she soothed, hoping it would be enough.


	5. Chapter 5

**Winner Enterprises Headquarters**  
**L4-V05001**  
**202 May 13**

While he waited for a Preventer from the L4 Branch Office to arrive, Quatre kept his hands buried deep in his suit pockets to keep from picking at the scabs on his knuckles, the cuts from a… _showdown_ with a wall at the residence about a week ago. His anger had gotten the better of him. He was on a short fuse these days, an unfortunate truth for all involved, he knew. It had been such for over six months now, if he was honest with himself, but he had sought to bury that specific _correlation_ from his conscious mind. After all, he’d managed to keep it leashed at the offices thus far and would continue to do so, God willing. 

Though recent news of a data breech wasn’t helping his blood pressure much. 

Their R&D division had been targeted and it was unclear how much had been taken before they’d managed to shut down the transfer. At the management’s briefing on the incident, Quatre had had to bite down on the inside of his cheek until he tasted blood to keep from sharing his initial thoughts. He had let his mind settle while their information security team waited anxiously at the other end of the table. Finally, he asked, “It was only R&D, correct?” 

“It would appear that way, sir. We’ve found no indications otherwise.” 

“So no personnel data was compromised? I don’t want to find out in a month that half my staff has had their identities stolen.” The briefer nodded and jotted something down in his notebook. Quatre then leaned forward, his hands clasped on the tabletop. “Compile a comprehensive report on the incident – start to finish – as well as what we know about the methods our attackers employed. Contact the authorities too. R&D is kept afloat almost exclusively by Preventers contracts. I imagine they’d like to know about this.” 

He imagined right. Within 36 hours, the L4 Branch had sent one of their agents, Preventer Michael Abbott. An older man, his hair graying at his temples, Quatre found the man cordial but not overtly friendly. But then, Quatre couldn’t exactly blame him, given the circumstances – Winner Enterprises was considered all but infallible as far as standards and security was concerned. The fact that there even _had_ been a breach was disconcerting.

Following brief introductions, Quatre turned and escorted the agent to the elevator which would take them to WEI’s board room. As they rode the lift, the lighted numbers blinking on the display overhead, Abbott decided to grill him. 

“You’re very active yourself in the R&D division, are you not?” 

“I am. I reopened the division. It’s been a personal undertaking to ensure we support the Preventers mission to the best of our ability.” 

“It’s seems rather odd that the CEO himself would be so involved,” the man observed. The man’s graying hair gave the comment an added layer of condescension which set Quatre’s teeth on edge. 

He smiled politely nonetheless and asked, “Am I under investigation, Agent?” 

“We need to simply consider all possibilities that could have led to the breech, Mr. Winner.” 

“‘All possibilities,’” Quatre repeated. “Agent Abbott, in addition to the ethical responsibility I feel to deliver on promises I made to both the ESUN and Director Une some years ago, I also have a _personal_ interest in the R &D division’s success because I have friends in the Preventer Corps. They have been shot at and injured repeatedly in the field. And while I can’t join the fight myself, I can make damn well sure that I’m doing my best to bring them home in one piece.” 

This admission seemed to catch the older man by surprise. Quatre pressed on before he could say something in his own defense. “If my designs – if my _team’s_ designs – have been compromised and are now out there somewhere in the ether, then my friends and _your_ comrades are less safe now than they were 48 hours ago. 

“So please do search out ‘all possibilities’ as you said,” he continued, his voice turning dark. “You can trust I’ll be doing the same here.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Schbeiker Scrap and Salvage  
L2-V10328  
202 June 5**

Prior to Duo’s intermittent – and later semi-permanent – transfer up to the L2 cluster, Hilde’s interaction with Heero was sporadic at best, and usually required her to take the initiative to keep their lines of communication open and reliable. Otherwise, Duo served as their go-between. 

Now, however, Heero had been seeking her digital company out with a growing frequency of video calls. And although there were times where he seemed content with the direction of life’s curveballs, today was not one of those days. Hilde watched as Heero brought his hand up to his lips and began to bite at his thumbnail, his eyes focused elsewhere. “What’s wrong, Heero?” she asked. “Talk to me.” 

The man on the video feed sighed deeply, his hand coming down even has his legs curled up with him on the chair. “I’m…worried,” he confided, still avoiding her gaze. “When he’s called back here…he’s too thin and…something’s off. Like he hasn’t been sleeping; like he’s chasing shadows.” 

Hilde was silent for a moment as she gathered her thoughts. The few times Duo had stopped by her colony in between stints on V08744, she had noticed the same thing. And in the sporadic video calls he’d made to her since relocating to the neighboring satellite, Duo had appeared wiry and drawn, like a spring wound too tight for too long. There was also a growing darkness there, lurking, familiar and dangerous. It sent shivers down her spine. To Heero, however, she said, “You trust him, right?” 

Heero started at the question, his face betraying his confusion. “Of course.” 

“Then trust he knows what he’s doing and what his limit is. We have to be there for him when he hits the wall, but we can’t get in the way – it’ll just make him angry.” 

She watched Heero take a deep breath and slowly exhale in a long, controlled sigh. At last he raised his eyes to fully meet her gaze and she found him nearly as haggard as she had come to associate with Duo. “Duo’s never told me what keeps him awake at night, but I know it has to do with that island,” he said. “The war haunts my dreams. I don’t think I could set foot inside a mobile suit again, much less every day for a year. 

“I imagine this posting evokes a similar horror,” he continued. “We’re watching what happens when you’re forced to relive your darkest fears, Hilde. This will not end well.”


	7. Chapter 7

**St. Agnes Abbey  
L2-V08744  
202 August 1**

Duo sat in the Chapel of St. Mary, which stood just off of the Abbey’s main sanctuary, and worried the edge of the silver medallion Heero had given him between his teeth. Thoughts whirled in his head, building up mountains of connections on the shaky foundations of hair-brained theories and weak evidence.

“Oh! I’m sorry!” Duo looked up to find one of the Abbey’s nuns backpedaling out of the chapel. “I didn’t mean to disturb you—” 

“No, no it’s okay,” he assured, offering his hand. “Duo Maxwell,” he introduced herself. 

“Sarah,” she replied. “You’re one of the agents that’s helping with the…the case.” The fact that there was only one case worthy of drawing the public’s attention didn’t bode well. Duo nodded nonetheless. The young woman took a seat beside him and for a moment, they each contemplated the Virgin’s image before them. Duo went back to worrying the image of poor St. Jude.

“I didn’t realize you were Catholic,” she said. When Duo turned to question her, she pointed at the silver piece between his fingertips. “Your medallion,” she added by way of clarification. 

“Ah, well,” Duo faltered, wondering why he felt guilty. “It was a gift from a friend, before I came up here.” He moved his thumb aside to show her the figure. “I fear I’ve been absent-mindedly gnawing on Jude’s head. I don’t think that wins me any points.” 

She smiled and reached out to take the medallion with her own thin fingers. “Did your friend really think you were a lost cause, or is it ironic?” 

Duo smirked at that. “Sometimes I wonder about that myself.” 

“You should try talking to him. St. Jude, I mean,” she suggested. “He might be helpful in a pinch.” Duo wasn’t sure how to respond to the suggestion, so he let the shared silence fill the space between them. “Well,” she said at last, transferring the medallion back to his fingers, “I should go. Reverend Mother will wonder where I’ve gotten off to with all the little ones downstairs…” 

Standing, the nun paused and turned to him, her gaze heavy with the resigned determination that set L2 so far apart from its colonial sisters. “We _deuces_ protect our own, but sometimes we don’t have the means. But _you_ do, Mr. Maxwell.” She swallowed, and when she spoke again her voice was raw. “Those babies deserved better,” she told him, bringing to painful clarity the break in the case several months back. “They still do. So you get them their justice, Mr. Maxwell, and you make sure those men pay for what they did. You make sure they rue the day they ever set foot in this colony.” 

He offered her a dark, dangerous smile. “I intend to.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Foreign Minister’s Offices  
L4-V05001  
202 September 19**

Relena moved with long, sure strides through the Foreign Minister’s suite, marching straight passed her superior’s special assistant – the man’s flustered reproach chasing at her heels – and into the senior diplomat’s office, deftly closing the door behind her.

The older man looked up from a memo and stood from behind his desk, sliding his reading glasses from his eyes to see her better from afar. Before he could speak, however, she demanded, “Why has my request for an industry roundtable been denied?” 

The Minister shook his head. “It wasn’t the concept I objected to,” he assured.

“Then it was the guest list,” she assessed. “Am I right to assume then that all engagement with Winner Enterprises continues to be on ice?” She didn’t even wait for an answer – she didn’t need to. The Foreign Minister’s face said it all. “God almighty, Atsushi,” she admonished, viciously neglecting the standard decorum which dictated she not address the man as her equal. “Quatre Winner and his company have been absolved of all possible suspicion _months_ ago. The breach was an outside attack. We both know that. And I have my own theories about who among the business community itself could be to blame, but I have to keep my personal opinions to myself in that regard…” 

“I’m trying to protect the integrity of this office,” the older man countered. “I’m trying to protect you too, for what it’s worth. It wouldn’t do for you to be too closely tied to that man.” 

Relena glared back at him from across the room, not having any desire to close the distance between them. Gathering her wits about her, her fists clenched at her sides, she ground out, “I don’t need your _protection,_ Minister. My portfolio at this cluster has been – among other duties – to engage with the business community. That _includes_ Winner Enterprises, regardless of what your _personal_ reservations may be. You need to let me do my job.” 

He watched her for a long time, a battle of wills if she had ever experienced one. At last, clearly begrudgingly, he relented. “Alright. Have your staff send back the memo. I’ll approve it.” She nodded, thanking him, and turned to leave. “But Relena,” he called, and she paused at the door. “Just be careful.”


	9. Chapter 9

**St. Mary’s Chapel, St. Agnes Abbey  
L2-V08744  
202 October 31**

He had slinked into the Abbey as a shadow of shadows, a skin in which he’d grown ever more at ease operating in, even after so many years away in the light. Duo wondered where this new affinity for the Abbey itself had come from, however. As the year had dragged on, he found himself with ever greater frequency in its holy halls in a desperate bid to focus his thoughts. Half the time he’d end up stretched out on the pews, the only real sleep he’d been getting recently, but that was beside the point. 

But tonight, he came tired and angry. The Branch had been attacked in broad daylight by who Duo could only assume had been some of Ozols’ hired hitmen. The lot of them had gunned out the front lobby, killing or maiming agents and bystanders alike. The hit and run had damaged more than morale – one of their key witnesses, who had in all likelihood been the primary target of the attack, was now dead. Everyone else had just been in the wrong place at the wrong time. 

Collateral damage. 

He sneered as his thoughts turned sour, his steps ringing hollow through the sanctuary. He glared up at the altar at the far end, its crucifix gleaming in the candlelight, and veered to the side to dart into St. Mary’s chapel. 

For all the times he’d sought her out, her and her solitude, she’d brought him little peace. Just more death, more frustration, more fear with every passing day. With a heavy sigh, he collapsed backward, supine, on the on the front pew and bent his legs up to cross one leg at the ankle over the other knee. 

“You’re not doing me much good, Lady,” he ground out between clenched teeth. “When I started getting to the end of my rope, I figured, ‘Eh, why not? Couldn’t hurt.’” He shook his head. “Fool’s errand, that. Just a whole lotta sleepless nights and spent oxygen.” 

Kicking his foot out, he used the momentum to pull himself upright once more. Turning, he stood and eyed the statue on the small altar with suspicion. “Should’ve guessed though. _She_ prayed to you too, and you did jack all for her. For any of them, really. You let those green coats blow the whole thing to hell with everyone inside. 

“And _that_ was just the _church_ ,” he hissed. “What was all of that ‘blessed mother’ bullshit? All us kids out in the street…hungry and sick and dying when the plagues hit…” His voice broke at the last, and he hung his head, defeated. “We’re _still_ dying.

“I hated you for that, for _them._ You and your Son.” His vision blurred and his eyes stung as he closed them against the dim light of the chapel. “Where were you when they needed you? Where were you when _I_ needed you?”

His breath hitched as he felt the first tears burn trails down his cheeks. _Boys don’t cry,_ he thought bitterly and then cursed when he couldn’t make them stop. _Too damn tired…_ “Why did you take them? Why did you leave me alone?” he asked, gasping against the pain in his chest. “Why did you not make me fast enough?” 

But as the tears continued to fall, as his chest ached against the sobs that he strangled in his throat, there was…a light. 

A soft light, warm and inviting, that enveloped him slowly, gently, from the crown of his head, surrounding him, engulfing him, sparking and igniting his nerve endings as it moved down, down, down… 

And in his mind’s eye…an endless, starless night sky stretched out over an endless, brown earth, fertile and unbounded by the limits of time and space. Infinite and peaceful, and swathed in this light he knew that he too was a limitless thing. And as this revelation found its home pulsing in his veins he distantly heard himself whisper, “I forgive you.” 

The words rolled like cresting waves through him and out into the earth, the sky, the light that held him, and as it receded, he opened his eyes to look up onto the face of Mary to find she was no longer as cold as he had thought before. 

He distantly registered the tears still streaming from his eyes and laughter tumbling from his lips. Both were warm and colored with such deep release that he could feel it shaking him apart. Delighted at the prospect of the collapse that would return him to the stardust from whence he’d come, he relished in the lightness it brought. 

Overwrought and overwhelmed, Duo lay down on the floor before the altar and slipped into a dreamless sleep.


	10. Chapter 10

**L2 Branch Office, Central Conference Room  
L2-V08744  
202 November 6**

It had been a little shy of a week since he had woken up on the floor in St. Agnes Abbey, staring up at the ceiling of St. Mary’s chapel, the Blessed Virgin looming into his view from the side. Campbell had found him as such, visibly concerned about whatever unforeseen force had rocked his detailee’s socks to the point of laying him out on a church floor. 

When he pushed himself slowly to his feet, Duo had told him only, “I know what we need to do. Call a briefing with the Director,” he instructed as the two of them crossed back through the chapel gates into the main sanctuary. 

“Wait, _the_ Director?”

“Yes, _the_ Director,” Duo repeated. “Tell her Duo Maxwell called it. She’ll make room on her calendar,” he added as he veered away from Campbell. 

“Where are you going?” 

“To confession,” Duo had told him, his strides carrying him deeper into the Abbey and in the end, straight to the Reverend Mother. By the time the two of them had finished their tête-à-tête, it had been well into the evening. Thankfully, most of the Preventers team was still at the branch office when he arrived. Pulling the lot of them into the conference room, Duo had laid out his plan, and they began to work. 

Now, he and Campbell stood – virtually – before Preventers’ leadership, little boxes of moving portraits displayed in grainy detail on the central conference room’s large video screen. As the branch chief provided the opening salvo, Duo watched the faces move and react…or not react, as the case may be. Une herself was unreadable, but among the others there a few familiar faces – such as Sally Po, who seemed to only grow happier the longer the brief went, almost as if she felt vindicated about something. 

As talk turned to assets, Campbell turned to Duo, who tapped a few key areas on the tablet that had waited patiently in his arms. “This is what we’ll need,” Duo informed the listeners, sliding his fingertips across the tablet’s surface, data and charts appearing on the video feed. He paused to allow their leadership to review the information. When several sets of eyes turned back to him, he continued, “And this is how we plan to use it.” Expanding the ESUN map on his tablet, he once more slid it onto the video feed. 

A few of the Deputies visibly balked at the proposal. Sally smirked, but both she and Une remained quiet, which left Duo and Campbell to field the logistical questions to the best of their ability. 

When the initial din finally subsided, Une at last spoke. “This is a highly coordinated attack, agents. To execute as you’ve laid out, it would require a great deal of reallocation – of manpower, hardware… _finances_ – and even then, there is a very high risk that it could fail.” 

“Yes, Ma’am, that’s true,” Duo admitted. No point in denying that much. 

Une considered this for a moment as the rest of them held their breath. Finally, she asked, “If we do this…can we get him?” 

“Absolutely.” Of that, Duo had no doubt. 

At this, Une finally did smile – small and dangerous. It made Duo think she looked a bit like her old self again. “We are exactly…46 days from execution. Direct your teams to move out as single units to conduct unrelated stings. No one – and I mean _no one_ – is to know the full details of this plan except for those currently on this feed.”


	11. Chapter 11

**Unit #1312, Preventers HQ Subsidized Housing Complex  
Geneva, Switzerland  
202 December 4**

_Will be in town later this week. Are either of you around?_

The note from Quatre had caught both Heero and Wufei by surprise, but pleasantly so. A flurry of calendar-checking and hasty kitchen-restocking followed the equally brief reply from Wufei which said they would not only be around, but available too.

Sunday morning found Quatre stepping into their humble apartment, his hair dyed a forgettable brown. “I hope I’m not intruding,” Quatre told them as he slid out of his coat and shoes alike in the foyer. 

“Hardly,” Heero assured him from his perch on the couch. 

Wufei nodded in adamant agreement and added, “It’s been awhile since we heard from you.” 

Quatre winced at this as he walked into the room, embracing each of them in kind. “Yes…well…Sorry about that…” he said, sounding every bit as though he meant it. Wufei suspect it had something to do with the breach earlier in the year. Since then, it had been almost total radio silence from their friend as Quatre had gone on a self-imposed lockdown on all unofficial communication.

Wufei deemed it unwise to pry. “Want something to eat? Drink?” 

“Coffee would be fantastic.” 

“Heero, over to you.”

His roommate leveled a glare at him…but nonetheless stood and walked into the kitchen. “I see how that ball was passed,” the man muttered darkly. 

Turning back to Quatre, Wufei informed him, “It’s all about delegation,” which earned a stifled snort of laughter from the other man. “Come on,” he urged, heading to the dining table. They took their seats and as they listened to Heero rummage in the kitchen, Wufei asked, “I take it work’s back on track?” 

Quatre sighed, crossing his arms on the tabletop and leaning heavily over them. “As much as can be expected, I suppose. I’m here on a confidence building mission. I have a meeting with your boss tomorrow.” 

“That going to wash out by then?” Wufei asked nodding up at the crown of Quatre’s head. 

“Should. I put it in a few days ago now.” 

“How long are you here?” Heero asked as he returned with cups for the two of them. He leaned back into the small kitchen to grab his own cup before joining them at the table. 

“Just a couple days. It’s one of those ‘in and back out again’ trips.” Quatre paused to take a sip of his coffee before he continued, “I’m glad I caught you while you were both here. I know you’ve been jet setting quite a bit with the job.” 

“We’ve had to start trading off field duty, it’s become so much,” Heero informed him. 

“Which is to say that Heero’s not a fast report writer,” Wufei supplied. 

“You can’t rush quality writing, Zhang.” 

“I think it’s just because you don’t like to fly coach.” 

“…That too.” 

Quatre laughed at the two of them and shook his head. “Glad to see you two have developed quite the symbiotic relationship. Duo would be proud. Speaking of – have you heard much from him?” 

Wufei’s eyes darted in Heero’s direction and found the man’s demeanor turning colder. He answered for them both, “Not really.” 

“I’m worried about him,” Quatre admitted, his gemstone eyes studying the table between them. 

“The feeling is mutual in this household. Trust me,” Wufei told him. 

Quatre smiled half-heartedly at this. “I know. I keep having to remind myself that Duo’s a fighter – he always was. He’ll be fine.” Wufei wondered who Quatre was trying to convince and risked one more sidelong glance at Heero, who seemed to be a bit reassured. 

They spent the day together in the chilly December weather, wandering the city and its cafés, its museums and galleries. They were able to make ample use of the blue sky too – which Wufei believed had done Heero’s vitamin D levels good – before retreating to the apartment as the storm clouds rolled in. 

Quatre graciously offered to make them dinner that evening, Wufei acting as his sous chef. Heero hovered off to the side, watching them and doing his best to stay out of the way – Quatre referred to it as “supervising.” 

As they worked, Wufei absentmindedly asked Heero what he planned to do over his birthday, which quickly prompted questions from Quatre. “Wait – your birthday is this week?” their guest asked, clearly startled. 

“This year it’s the seventh,” Heero told him. 

“‘This year?’” Quatre echoed. “How do you mean?” 

“Like December 7 opposed to May 23,” Wufei explained. “Duo and he change the date each year.” 

“What a novel idea,” Quatre acknowledged with a laugh, highly amused. “When did _that_ start?” 

Heero shrugged. “It was Hilde’s idea originally. When we were living with her, she took it on herself to find new reasons to be happy about something. One day she tacked up two sheets of paper on the wall – one numbered one to twelve, the other to thirty-one – and she made us throw darts at them. They had to teach me not to aim,” he finished, a bit sheepish about the last. “We’ve been doing it – the random selection – every year since.” 

“So do you have any plans?” When Heero shook his head, Quatre frowned. “You should find _something_ to do, even if it’s just you on your own. Birthdays only come once a year. They’re good for some introspection, if not outright celebration.”


	12. Chapter 12

**L2 Branch Office  
L2-V08744  
202 December 23**

They had arrested the ringleader themselves – Andris Ozols had seen no reason to flee or even put up much of a fight at 0200. He had ordered his staff to call his lawyer so that they could “get things cleared up,” but went quietly enough into the squad car. When deposited in cuffs in the Preventers Branch Office’s inner rooms, he seemed mildly surprised, but hardly concerned. 

When Campbell passed him off to Duo and left the room, the crime lord had the gall to be irritated at this new development. He sneered as he sized Duo up, and found him lacking the commanding presence – and height – his Preventers colleagues carried, and so he ticked off the multitude of reasons that he should be immediately released, all of which Duo was sure had well-established by his underlings through money and violence. But after a good fifteen minutes of such nonsense, Duo had had enough. “Cut the noise, Ozols,” he said simply, startling the man into silence. “It’s over.” 

This had the crime lord smirking. “You have nothing.” 

“We do actually, and it’ll stand up just fine in court, lemmee assure you. Two hours ago, while we’ve had you holed up here, Preventers units throughout the Earth Sphere _shut down_ your operation. We’ve arrested over a thousand members of the ring and counting. Your cohorts in the top tiers are all being contained in little rooms not unlike this one all over the world.” 

Ozols shook his head and laughed. “Not possible. Nice try kid, but Preventers isn’t that well-organized.” 

Duo grinned darkly. Standing, he crossed back to the observation window and tapped the glass. Projected images of recent news reels from around the globe showed gun fights, arrests, surrenders…thousands upon thousands of images in hundreds of languages. “Not coordinated, huh?” Duo asked, turning back to the mob boss. “I and my friends across the seven continents would disagree. Oh, not to mention the other fifty teams that pounced your boys while in transit.” Duo leveled his gaze at Ozols and let that sink in just a bit more. “Like I said. It’s over.” 

They stared each other down for several long minutes before the man said, “You’re lying,” his voice rough with what Duo thought was quite possibly desperation. 

“I never lie,” Duo answered him, his voice soft…and dangerous. Turning back to the table, he leaned forward and planted his hands solidly under him, looking long and hard into Ozols’ eyes. Two years. Two fucking years of his life…and it was done. Finally. All those lives, all those kids… “Be thankful I have a badge,” Duo told the man, his voice laced with the ice, death in his eyes, “or you’d be leaving in several fewer pieces than you arrived.” 

The man glared right back. “Is that so?” 

Duo pressed his splayed fingers into the table top, his blue eyes burning holes into the other man. When he spoke, it was barely above a whisper, and certainty coated every syllable. “If we were on the streets…you wouldn’t be smilin’ so pretty, seeing as you’d have to reattach your jaw to the rest of your face _after_ having met your insides close-and-personal-like.” 

Duo paused to let that image sink in, and watched as Ozols’ face went white. Then he sprung back to stand upright, his arms stretched out to the side. “ _Buuuut_ I’m a Preventer agent, and I can only operate within the bounds of international law. And on top of that, you’re catching me in a particularly Zen state, so the best I can do is life in prison. Without parole.” He watched the mob boss relax at that, and Duo felt the predatory grin slide comfortably into place. “On PX19032.” 

“You can’t send me there!” Ozols snapped and struggled to stand, but the cuffs around his wrists held him to the table. They clanked noisily as he struggled. “I’m an Earth-born citizen.” 

“According to ESUN statute 96.1.a sub-section 3, we most certainly can,” Duo countered, his face splitting into a manic grin. “ _And_ you get the max!” he added with false excitement. 

Sobering, Duo crossed his arms over his chest and leaned forward to murmur, “Enjoy your last few hours of daylight – it’ll be the last time you ever see it.” And with that, Duo walked out.


	13. Chapter 13

**Unit #1312, Preventers HQ Subsidized Housing Complex  
Geneva, Switzerland  
202 December 30**

“The stings…that was you, wasn’t it?” The question was rhetorical of course – Heero had little doubt who had been behind the largest, coordinated Preventers operation to-date. He and Wufei had watched the activity unfold on news networks around the world in a flurry of confusion as everyone else had. At first, he had been unnerved by the show of force…but as more details emerged – the mob and trafficking rings within rings – he knew.

On the other end of the line, he heard Duo chuckle softly. “I can neither confirm nor deny—” 

“I know,” Heero cut off the familiar line – it was a sufficient response. 

“In truth, everything’s still in process,” Duo told him. “We’re going to be filling out paperwork for a _month._ I actually feel kinda bad for the world’s prosecution lawyers, now that it’s over and done with.” 

“Does this mean you’ll be coming home soon?” Heero hoped the question didn’t actually make him sound as lonely as he thought it did. 

Duo only laughed again, sounding tired. “What, you don’t like your new roommate?” 

Heero grit his teeth, looking for a response that didn’t sound incriminating. “It’s not that. Wufei is…a very good roommate. But you didn’t _transfer_ to L2; you were _detailed._ And the case is over, more or less.” Heero paused to worry the inside of his cheek before adding, “I’m just trying to understand the new SOP.” [1]

Duo sighed. “Well like I said, there’s paperwork. And depending on how prosecution proceeds, Campbell may or may not need me to stick around for statements and the like. There’s also some…housekeeping I have to take care of. Personal stuff.” 

The last piqued his curiosity, but Heero chose not to comment. “So…February? March?” 

“March probably. I want to go see Hil before I head back Earth-side. You should see the amount of comp time [2] I’ve accrued.” 

“I can imagine.” 

“Hey…I’m gonna sign off and try to get to sleep at a decent hour for once in the last two years.” 

“Sure,” Heero acknowledged, fighting his disappointment. But then he added impulsively, “Duo.” 

“Yeah?” 

“Good job.” 

There was a pause, but then, “Thank you.” Duo’s voice sounded…heavy, but whether it was fatigue or emotion, Heero couldn’t tell. “That means a lot, coming from you.” 

Heero smiled. “Get some sleep. I’ll talk to you later.” 

“Alright,” Duo acknowledged, signing off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [1] SOP = Standard Operating Procedure, which is exactly what it sounds like.
> 
> [2] Compensatory time, or “comp time,” refers to irregular or overtime work logged. Some work places (like the Preventers) allow employees to accrue this category of time to use as de facto vacation time later on.


End file.
